Page 10 of Love Me Tomorrow

I hope we can still be friends. I told him that too.

Please don’t hate me.I whispered those four soul-crushing words just before he stormed out of the mansion, his broad shoulders tense with fury. He’d turned back to me, then, with his normally aloof, dark eyes blazing and all that ink at the base of his throat rippling, like he was struggling for control. His mouth had parted, words clearly ready to launch and take aim, before he shook his head sharply and disappeared out into the night.

We haven’t spoken since.

So, yeah.

Two hours ago, I was fully prepared to finish up my meeting with the construction crew and then stop by next door. Bury the hatchet, once and for all. Come to terms with the fact that while I won’t be at the new Bourbon job site daily, Iwillbe down there frequently and the chances of Owen and me running into each other are definitely greater than zero percent.

But after actually seeing him face to face for the first time in months . . .

I don’t think I can do this.

Nerves pulse wildly under my skin as I stare at the antique doorknob that leads directly into the tattoo parlor.

Thirty minutes. That’s how long he gave me to get my butt over here.

I’m down to twenty-nine minutes and a handful of seconds.

I’m not the sort of woman who heeds a command without a sharp retort on the tip of my tongue—unless your name is Edgar or Marie Rose, in which case, all I do is obey, earn a paycheck, and wonder how I can love and hate a job all in the same breath—but the last thing I want is Owen Harvey barging into the construction site next door and causing a scene because I failed to show up on time.

Not that I’ve ever known him to cause a scene.

Not until you lied to his face and told him that you thought of him as nothing more than a friend.

A friend.

Honestly, it’s a miracle I wasn’t struck down by hellfire on the spot.

Unexpectedly, the glass door swings open before me, narrowly missing the pointed toes of my pumps.

I don’t need to glance up to know who it is. My senses are honed to everything that makes himhim: the woodsy scent that reminds me of hiking in City Park, the way he instinctually favors his left arm, the cowlick in his hairline that causes the dark-as-night strands to lay boyishly across his forehead.

His gravelly voice resonates within me like an earthquake shuddering beneath my feet. “You stand out here any longer and the cops are gonna think you’re plannin’ a burglary.”

I almost laugh.

Seven months ago, Iwouldhave laughed.

But already I can feel the awkwardness rifting between us, and I curl my toes in my heels to keep from turning tail and running away. I smile, all teeth andplease-don’t-make-this-harder-than-it-needs-to-bevibes. “With any luck, Gage would be the one to show up and I won’t have to worry about being arrested.”

At the mention of his twin, Owen rests a hand on the doorframe and bows down, so that we’re eye to eye, the way he’s always done to put us at equal height. In a soft, lethal tone, he murmurs, “Oh, you’d have to worry, all right.”

I shiver. Right there on the sidewalk, in the witheringly eighty-six percent humidity, I shiver like winter is coming and my only hope for survival is burrowing in Owen’s warm chest.

The way I see it, I have two options here: cower under Owen’s tangible anger or push back and stand my ground.

Desperate to reassert some control over the situation, I choose the latter with probably more gumption than is necessary.

My fingers land on his solid chest and I give a sharp push. He concedes without issue, drifting backward so I can ease my way into the air-conditioned parlor. It’s exactly the way I remember: black-and-white parquet floors, nineteenth-century barge-wood walls, frames of tattooed artwork hanging tastefully throughout the space.

A half-eaten cannolo abandoned on the receptionist’s desk.

The dessert I don’t remember being here, but since I wouldn’t mind eating my feelings right about now, I pay it no mind.

Spinning around, I plant my hands on my hips and get right down to business. “ERRG bought the souvenir shop next door three weeks ago. They went bankrupt, my dad saw an opportunity to open another restaurant in the Quarter, and the deal was done before the realtor even uploaded the listing online.”

Owen stands with his feet spread apart, hips straight, bulky arms folded over his chest. He’s big and brawny and I hate that even now—after everything that’s happened between us—I can’t help but stare at the way he’s rolled up the sleeves of his blue flannel to expose his steely, tattooed forearms.

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